


ducks in a row

by keithundead



Series: rootin tootin hunter boyos [1]
Category: JONAS, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Hotels, Monster Hunters, References to Supernatural (TV), Supernatural Elements, bc that one pop buzz interview got me soft so yeah, wholesome brother bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keithundead/pseuds/keithundead
Summary: Nick is tired. Tired of dreams, monsters, but most importantly- visions. Sometimes you need to make your own damn tea and get your own damn ice.





	ducks in a row

Nick doesn’t hear it, or see it, but he  _ feels  _ it.

It’s a dream, clearly, but it feels far too much like a vision; the way he wakes up with a pang in his heart, the way the scene plays in the back of his mind makes him feel like he’s having a panic attack. It feels like his chest is gonna implode on itself at any minute. For a second, he  _ thinks  _ he might be sweating, but no droplets prick his skin. He has a headache, too. That familiar feeling of cold electricity is all over his body. Great.

He reads the clock on the nightstand-  _ 4 in the fucking morning _ \- and groans. He can barely remember the dream, but he knows it has to do with the hotel. It makes sense, the shock he felt when he swiped the room key  _ couldn’t  _ have been “the cold.” If he finds whatever monster  _ is _ here, he’s making Joe hunt it. By himself. Without help from  _ any  _ of Nick’s visions.

Nick rubs his eyes, then sits up while wrapping himself in the complimentary comforter. He still feels cold, so he decides to kill some time and make some (possibly) vomit-inducing hotel tea. He needs all the warmth he can muster, knowing whatever the fuck could be out there.

On his way to the cupboard, he tries to remember the dream. That… human-like presence, there’s too many possibilities: ghouls, shifters, even (and he hopes not)  _ vampires _ . Those things give him the creeps. A ghoul, he could handle. Kevin might have the best way around tricking a shapeshifter between the three of them, and Nick would be happy- yet reluctant- to help. Vampires, though? Not at all. His hand twitches above the box of teabags at the sheer  _ thought  _ of those viscous bloodsuckers. Gross.

_ Alright, dude,  _ he can already hear Joe’s voice in his head,  _ all monsters are “viscous bloodsuckers”. Relax.  _ He hates how Joe takes hunting-  _ of all things _ \- so lightly. For now, he uses the pent up “I told you so” he’ll save for his brothers inside him to focus on making tea.

The kitchenette is enough to suit his comfort; the quiet bubbling of kettle reminds him of Jersey’s air pollution, a strange association, but he can’t help it. He smiles, not noticing his hand inching closer to the stove eye.

~

Joe stretches his shoulders, legs, and spine.

His wristwatch reads “4:00,” he smiles. Perfect time for his daily sweep. 

Nick told him the hotel had a bad vibe from jump, and of  _ course  _ Joe wasn’t gonna tell him he felt the same. That kid needs a break, seriously. The best way to go about hunting whatever’s in here is to make sure Nick has no part in it.  _ It’s best for all of us, _ he thinks,  _ it’s about time I start pulling my weight _ . He knows how valuable he is to the team, but recently there’s been a lack in group hunting altogether. Either Kev’s busy with keeping tour tech intact, or Nick’s just too tired from the night before, leaving unsolved cases across the map.

Joe’s first step in his routine is to make  _ some  _ sort of breakfast. His room has some granola bars in a fridge somewhere, but he knows it’ll come out of somebody’s pocket if he eats one.  _ Shit _ . The only thing he can think of to get is hotel breakfast, but he doubts they’re open this early. He thinks for a minute, then gets struck with an idea.

He walks to the kitchenette in his room, flips on a light and turns the knob on the stove. It’s been a while; the last time he’s cooked for himself was in, well, Jersey. It reminds him of making extra food for Nick when he first got diagnosed; it reminds him of his whole family pitching to take care of Frankie, too. He smiles a bit, rummaging through the fridge for any semblance of food to heat up. 

Breakfast goes by quickly; Joe’s thankful that his mom thought to stop by the store before their next show. Thanks to her, he made his own little meal out of eggs and bacon, sighing contentedly to himself at his accomplishment.

With a quick glance at his watch, he reminds himself of the real reason he woke up. He dumps the remaining bits of food in the trash, then stops to pour himself another cup of coffee. When he checks the freezer for more ice, however, he comes up empty handed.

~

_ Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid dumbass idiot _ .

Nick cradles his newly scorched hand, trying his best to hold back tears. Logically, he knows that hindsight is 20/20, but emotionally, he feels like his good-for-nothing vision powers should be good for  _ something _ .  _ Like, it’s one thing to sense werewolves and fae and what-the-fuck-ever,  _ he scolds inwardly,  _ but not being a  _ smidge  _ psychic? Shit’s unfair. _

He checks his hunting case, no spare cloth. He checks his “just in case” pack, then realizes he used up the last of his holy water ice packs to shove down a demon’s throat. The hotel room doesn’t have ice in the freezer, either, which means he has to go  _ all  _ the way down to the first floor with a hypersensitive hand to get some fucking ice. He’s starting to hate sleeping in facilities with more than one storey.

The way down  _ would’ve  _ been easy, had the goddamn elevator decided to work for once. Nick has to go down the actual  _ stairs  _ now, trying not to touch the rails because the wrong graze on the wrong side of his hand has human pain  _ and  _ vision pain. He can’t tell if the electricity is coming from a vision or the cold stairway current, but he hates it either way.

Nick finally makes it to the reception desk. He asks politely for a key to the ice cooler, and the woman up front is a bit skeptical to give it to him. Odd. When he gives a brief explanation of why he needs ice at 4:30 in the morning, he hands him the key with a sorrowful smile. Which is… empathetic, sure, but even  _ more  _ odd. He doesn’t know if it’s his own sensory issues, but the key’s texture feels… gross.  _ Make sure to boil this upstairs, nobody else should touch this thing _ .

He’s still tired, but he can’t rub the sleep out of his eyes. That’d just be… unnecessary.  _ But… the eye crusts, _ he begs himself,  _ they feel worse than a sore hand _ . He groans, of course he (literally) has to be picky about eye boogers, of all things. While rubbing his eyes, he doesn’t notice the glue-like substance on the floor he’s about to slip in, but someone else does.

“Woah, dude,” says the irritatingly familiar voice behind him, “can’t have a concussion on stage tomorrow.”

Jesus.

Nick grimaces, then pulls his arm out of his brother’s protective grip. “Joe? The hell are you doing up?” He almost slips again before he looks down- it’s almost like the floor’s covered in- oh no.

“I could ask the same, little bro.” Joe squints, folding his arms, “what are  _ you  _ doing up? I swear, if you had a vision and didn’t tell me-”

“God, not this speech again-”

“You  _ did _ ! Nick, dude, c’mon-”

“I just wanted to make some tea!” Nick raises his voice higher than he anticipated, but he couldn’t care less at this point. “That’s all I wanted to do this morning, Joe! Make some fucking tea, go back to sleep, and get ready for rehearsal or some shit. Goddamn, man.”

Joe relaxes his posture, looking down to see the reddening bruise on his brother’s hand. “Are you hurt?”

“Joe-”

“No, seriously, are you hurt? I have bandages upstairs but, uh, the ice down here isn’t any good.”

Welp, there goes Nick’s suspicion. Obviously, there was something in that chest that Joe didn’t want Nick to find.  _ Screw Joe _ .

“I can get my own ice, y’know,” without a moment’s hesitation, he twists the key until the hood is popped open, much to Joe’s disapproval.

They both look down the chest, neither of them surprised as they are nauseous. Down there, surrounded by the ice, is what looks like fragments of the reception lady’s body. Sticky, dark blood coats the frozen bags. The unnatural bends and twists of her body makes Nick want to gag, but he’s seen far too many similar things far too many times. This is just the cherry on top of his bad morning sundae.

Nick and Joe share expectant looks at each other. Joe looks like he’s about to say something, but Nick picks up a tiny plastic bucket, a trowel, and starts to push the receptionist’s corpse to get to the bottom of the chest.

With a new pail of (for the most part) fresh ice, and an exasperated sigh, Nick reconnects the eye contact with Joe.

“Kevin?” he asks.

Joe slumps his shoulders. “Kevin.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this after plotting what growing up as hunters was like for the jobros so stay tuned for mOREEE


End file.
